Dominique Manotti: Escape

In a neutral voice, she says, ‘The French police will conduct a lengthy investigation into Filippo’s assassination, but they won’t find the killers. They’ll only be sure of one thing. The modus operandi : a professional hit man, a single bullet shot at point-blank range, an accomplice on a motorbike, speedy getaway, no clues, no witnesses, it’s a professional hit. Then a police officer will recall having read Filippo’s book: Carlo’s double was shot after the Rome gang informed on him. To avenge him, Filippo’s double shoots Marco, the leader of the Rome gang, who take their revenge by having Filippo killed. It all makes sense.’

‘You’re talking nonsense.’

‘You’ll see. I’m willing to bet on it.’

Roberto desperately casts about for a topic of conversation to distract her.

‘It would be better to talk about our own affairs. There’s no reason not to continue with Bonamico. Who shall we contact to publish your report?’

Lisa stops eating, she looks straight through Roberto, and stares into the far distance.

‘I don’t think you realise what’s just happened. We’re not going to publish anything at all. There’s no point. There’s nothing more to be done. Nobody can fight against a death as romantic as Filippo’s. He’s become a sort of legend, that of the hoodlum at a turning point in his life — he steals, he kills, he writes and he dies at the age of twenty-three, shot on the streets of Paris by strangers, with a bullet straight through his heart. Twenty-three years old, just think. The age I was when I met Carlo. Filippo is a comet, and his book will now be sacrosanct. He has taken Carlo off into a world of his own. Nothing more to be done. Adieu, Carlo, bon voyage .’

‘Are you giving up?’

Still gazing into the distance, she says nothing for a while.

‘Yes, I’m giving up. That particular battle’s lost. If I want to try and salvage our past, there’s only one thing left for me to do. Write novels.’